Paroxysm
by Annick La
Summary: It starts with a feeling, feelings breathe thoughts, thoughts produce action and action makes room for ill-gotten gains. What happens when it all becomes too much for one lonely housewife? She drowns.
1. Part One

**Chapter One:**

 _"Lately I'm foolish. I don't do this_ _."_

 _-'Crazy In Love Remix' Beyonce._

* * *

She doesn't know who he is.

Doesn't know his name. Doesn't know his age.

Doesn't know what he does for a living.

She doesn't know if he has a dog, or two cats.

Doesn't know if he is a bachelor, or if he has a wife and six or seven kids at home.

She doesn't know anything about him.

All she knows is that she is currently experiencing the most intense pleasure she has ever felt in her life. And he is giving it to her.

~Two Weeks Prior~

With a flick of her wrist the light inside of the oven clicks on illuminating the baking pan inside. Michelle crotches a little to make sure everything is working fine then returns to a standing position to make sure the temperature is set at the right degrees.

She moves on to the pot already boiling on the stove. A pop and a hiss make her jerk her hand back a little as the red sauce jumps from the pot to the stovetop.

"Damn," she shakes her hand that holds the spoon and licks away the residue of hot tomato sauce on her brown skin. She swishes it in her mouth a little to get a better taste. Not too much salt, not too garlicky "Needs basil,"

On her tiptoe she manages to get the herb down and adds in a dash. She stirs the mixture for a while then turns the fire down on the gas stove. Satisfied with how her sauce turns out and with the garlic bread already simmering in the oven, Michelle allows herself to look away from the food to check her phone that sits on the next counter. Her eye catches the time on the wall clock. It's just after seven pm, a little late she thinks but they still have time to eat dinner and go out if he makes it home within the next thirty minutes.

She picks up her phone, turns and then pushes up until she's sitting on the counter's surface, short rounded chestnut colored legs dangle and swing gently. Michelle swipes the screen of her phone and it lights up blue, casting a gentle glow her face. A knot forms in her chest filled with both disappointment and anxiety when the screen greets her blankly, no calls, no messages, no anything.

Michelle bites her lip and sits the phone down quickly as if that will make anything better. With both hands she pushes hair back from her face and holds it at the top of her head like a band. Her chin dips down and she closes her eyes, mentally counting and calming herself.

It can be anything. His phone could be off. He could have very well been in the middle of messaging her when it died on him and he's been worrying about ways to contact her. Or maybe he's trying to surprise her, make her work herself up just enough that he comes home with a gift or something that makes up for her panic. They could be in an area of the city where the service is weak and he can't get through. It most definitely cannot be that he's forgot, again, that they are supposed to have dinner together. Michelle refuses to let her mind spell out what most would deem extremely obvious. He's already two hours late from his normal 'off' time. There's no calls, no text, not even a brief one saying he's going to be home late. There's nothing but a blank screen and her biting her lip so hard to force the pressing anger down.

Deep breathes; she pulls herself together enough to lift her head. Michelle jumps from the counter and goes over to the stove. She stirs the sauce, pulls down the oven door and turns over the garlic bread, goes to the sink and runs a fresh round of hot water over the cooked spaghettis to keep them warm. A glance at the phone, she scratches behind her ear and looks away, glances again and then went back to the stove. She stirs the sauce again, checks on the bread once more, sweeps the floor, checks the clothes in the dryer and when there's nothing left to waste time she walks over to the counter where her phone rest. Like a looming dark shadow, she stands over it, peering at it with all her might to have something.

A touch to the scream, a quick swipe reveals nothing. Michelle impulsively picks up the phone and, without giving it much thought, dial's her husband's phone and waits. Her finger taps anxiously against the granite counter while it rings. She keeps a close eye on the red sauce, making sure it doesn't burn or pop anymore on the stovetop. The phone still rings without answer. Three rings. Four rings. Five rings. It goes to voicemail.

" _Greetings, you've reached the phone of Arthur Kirkland. My apologizes for missing your call. If this is important, please try calling again as I may not have heard the phone. If this is regarding antique finds, please try calling my partner, Alfred Jones, at_ …"

Michelle hangs up, knowing both the voicemail message and Alfred's phone number by heart. For reassurance though, she calls Arthur again. When he doesn't answer, she calls Alfred and, thankfully, he picks up.

"Alfred," Michelle expels a sigh of relief, "Hey, are you with Arthur? Alfred?" She can hardly hear him if he's talking because of whatever background noise is going on. She squints as if it will help her hear better then leaves the kitchen so the hum from the stove won't interfere with their conversation.

"Alfred?" she repeats a bit louder. There's a bit of shuffling, the noise gradually fades but not completely until,

"Chelles," Alfred whispers, unusual for him really, "Hey, what's up?"

"Why are you whispering? Where are you?"

There's a deliberate pauses before he speaks. "You haven't talked to Artie? He didn't tell you."

She rolls her eyes at the question knowing how ridiculous it may seem that she hasn't communicated with her husband. "I tried calling, he hasn't answered. Are you with him."

"Yeah, we're," Alfred pauses and it sounds as if he moves the phone away from his face as she can hear mumbling but not what he's saying. Someone mumbles something back. Alfred laughs a little and the phone is brought back to his ear. "Sorry, Michelle. But, yeah, he's with me. We're with Feliciano. You remember Feli—,"

"Yes, I remember who Feliciano is." Michelle interrupts with a frustrated sigh and rubs the crease in her forehead. Alfred stays silent even through her huffing, " _Where_ are you guys?"

It's unfair to Alfred, really, to be caught up in the middle of miscommunication—lack of in their case, between a husband and a wife. He's Arthur's closes friend and business partner. They've known each other since she and Arthur dated four years ago and it's always been the same. Whenever Arthur is out of her reach, she always goes to Alfred because, nine times out of ten, they're together. Perhaps they're together more than she is with her own husband. A pinch of jealousy creeps under her skin but she pushes it aside.

Alfred, for his part, takes a remorseful tone, like a child in trouble. "Feli took us to this art thing one of his friends had. Some French guy. It was a last minute thing, Chelles, I swear. We didn't even know we were going or the Feli would come by the place. He just said it was something we had to do because there's gonna be lots of things to buy and you know how Artie is…"

Yes, she knows her husband has a one-track mind when it comes to his profession. As an antique dealer and seller, whenever artifacts came close to being in his possession, Arthur tends to forget everything else. Including her and their dinner and movie they were supposed to be going to tonight.

Dinner.

Michelle rushes back to the kitchen and quickly turns the fire off from under the sauce. Red spots liter the stove. She picks up the spoon and gives the sauce a stir. Some sticks to the bottom of the pot, a little stiff and burnt. It takes everything for her not to just chuck it down the drain. Instead she tosses the spoon aside and moves the pot to a back aisle.

"Michelle? You okay?" Alfred questions cautiously.

When she reaches to open the oven a puff of smoke and burning garlic butter greets her. "No. I'm not okay," she snaps, yanking the oven mit from the counter, pulling the pan from it and just drops it on the nearest solid surface. "I burned the sauce and the garlic bread. Can you tell your partner to call his real life partner? Now. Please?"

"Okay. Just, go easy on him all right? There's a ton of good stuff here and Artie's really been working the crowds and getting good prices of some good stuff."

"I'll think about it."

"…You sure?"

"I'm hanging up, Alfred."

She hears him chuckle, "I'll tell him to call the Mrs."

Arthur does call within the next five minutes with a ton of apologizes and excuses as to how he forgot their dinner date. Michelle listens with measured patience as she cleans the messes she's made trying to contact him. He goes with the same explanation Alfred gave her earlier. They were in the warehouse, getting ready to lock everything away when Feliciano burst in telling them they had to follow. Arthur expresses that he didn't have time to think in light of the auction that would follow the art showing. Though he was leery about the time, he went anyway. Even though Feliciano is whimsical, he's a loyal source when it comes to these things. The Italian knows his antique art.

These are all stories Michelle's heard before. She knows how unpredictable and random the auburnette can be. She knows that he's often on point with his assessments of good art. She knows how much both of them love haggling prices and the thrill her husband feels at finding and getting a valuable piece of something for a steal. She only wishes he would give that much attention and concern when it came to her and things she wanted to do.

In the end, he does promise to do just that. They make a plan to go to this jazz lounge she's visited once or twice. Arthur promises to be home extra early. They set the day for Thursday and Michelle promises to make dinner and not burn it.

They part with her mildly satisfied. She puts the food away as leftovers and decides to eat a sandwich instead. The evening goes on a bit lackluster, with her watching TV until about midnight before going to bed.

When Arthur returned home that night, she's unsure.

~Thursday~

Michelle goes to the cupboard to get two plates and two cups, and then sets the table. A bottle of red wine sits between the plate settings. Pour sauce over steaks bring it to the table. Put the vegetables in a separate eating dish bring it to the table. She waits for maybe twenty more minutes before deciding she can eat without him. An hour and three glasses of wine later, Arthur still isn't home.

She checks her phone to be sure she hasn't missed a call. There's one message, telling her that he and Alfred finally managed to strike a deal with one of Feliciano's men. They went to some shanty looking club the Italian suggested and he thinks she should check out the lounge without him.

That's been almost thirty minutes ago.

Michelle scuffs and throws the phone on the table next to his cold plate of prepared food. A chuckle escapes her. She shakes her head as the chuckle develops into more of a laugh. Maybe it's the wine making this situation seem so funny. It's most certainly not a laughing matter. She knew, God knows, she knew this would happen. It always happens likes this. The fact that, even knowing her husband as much as she does, Michelle still hopes that Arthur would come through for her.

But he doesn't and it's always the same excuse. It's always work, always buying and selling, antiques and everything that has nothing to do with her. Yes, Michelle knew when she married him that Arthur is passionate about his job. She knew that he takes pleasure in going through old books or the thrill that comes from refurbishing a chest of drawers. It's one of the things she loves about him. The passion and thrill in his green eyes when something so simple as a lamp comes into his possession. If his job means she has to compete for his affection and attention, Michelle would rather live penniless in a shack than alone in a house that's supposed to be filled with two people.

She pushes her chair back and takes her empty plate to the sink. She's restless because she can feel the pain again, that sour, twisting sensation in her lungs that she tries to smother by cleaning dishes. But it does hurt to be put second all the time. A part of her reasons that at least he called this time to warn her. Arthur even suggests she go to the jazz place anyway, without him. It's not the same though. Michelle wants to go with him, for them to enjoy themselves, to do something that she likes for once. Yet the sacrifices are always on her part.

She wipes her face of tears scrubs needlessly at a pot. Arthur's food is wrapped and put away.

When the kitchen is cleaned she goes towards the bathroom, removing her shoes as she passed through the bedroom. Her reflection is the first thing she sees and it's a dreadful sight. Runny mascara, semi-swollen eyes, she looks like a wrecked mess. To think that her husband, her stupid husband who can't see a good thing when it's standing right in front of him, causes all of this.

She loves Arthur, she really does but something he just makes her so anger with him. Michelle snorts at that, angry is an understatement. It's like he prefers work and Alfred to her. It's like he doesn't even want to be with her anymore. She knows that's not true. Arthur adores her but it feels like that when he does things like this. It's hard to see the forest because of trees and, honestly, she's tired of feeling neglected. She has desires too. She has things she wants to do and one of them is go to that jazz place.

It's not like she needs his permission to go either, even if he gave it. Michelle is, for all intents and purpose, a grown adult capable of making her own decisions. If she wants to go than she will and Arthur can just…he can just kiss her round behind for all she cares right now. Let him have his art, antiques, Alfred and every other thing he wants. _She_ is going out tonight. _She_ is going to have fun without him. For once, Michelle is going to be the one not considering her spouse. The idea alone brightens her mood considerably and she wipes her face clean and forces a smile.

It falters when she takes in her full appearance "I look horrible," Michele concludes. The dress she's wearing is rather casual for the occasion. The lounge isn't really upscale, more of lounge/club spot that doesn't call for her to be fancy. That doesn't mean she can't look nice. "Then maybe Arthur'll see what he's missed out on."

The words come out a bit bitter but sets off a light bulb in her brain. When was the last time she actually got all dressed up and nice looking? It has been a little while and maybe tonight is the perfect night to look like more than a housewife. There's nothing wrong with her. She's beautiful by any standards, maybe a bit short but some men like that.

 _Arthur did_.

She almost gags and grunts sarcastically at the thought. He has an odd way of showing his love. Then again, maybe seeing her all dolled up will remind him. At the very least, it'll make her feel better.

So she reaches up and undoes the bun at the top of her head, letting her dark tresses drop freely. Michelle finger combs the tangles, fluffs her hair out then judges the look in the mirror. "Meh, let's try…" she pulls it all to one side and put it in a messy braid. The lounge gets pretty packed after a certain time and having her hair all over her neck will get hot quickly.

The braid keeps her hair down but is still sexy enough to look good. Satisfied, Michelle leaves the bathroom, unzipping her dress on the way. The last thing she wants is being reminded of what tonight was supposed to be. Instead of a dress, she goes for a pair of fitted jeans, her favorite pair that shows enough curve but not too tight. She pairs it with a red off the shoulder shirt, good enough to keep her cool and tastefully show off some skin. A pair of comfortable low wedges completes the look. Michelle redoes her make up and after grabbing the essentials she's call for a taxi instead of taking her own car. She's already had three glasses of wine and, tonight, Michelle plans to release all inhibitions

It's nearly 10 pm when the taxi drops her off near the corner. She may not have always been the person to go out but she doesn't expect this on a Thursday. Actually, she's never really had the chance to be that person. When her and Arthur met, she was nineteen years old. They married the next year and have been together for the past three years. Since he's not the type to go to clubs and bars, she's had to compromise on that part of her personality.

But Michelle likes this, all of it. The moderate crowd surrounding the place, the sound of music coming from it as she walks up to the lounge. She's only been on a weekend and more early evening, never this late into the night. The place is all dim lights and lounge sofas tuck off in even darker corners. There's a bar with people crowding it, a space for dancing and a little platform for live performances. Michelle orders a mojito and sits alone at one of the few single chairs with a table.

Most people are here with people, friends, relatives, partners; it doesn't matter. She doesn't really see anyone there alone like she is. At first she just observes, watching as people come in and out. By the time she's on her second drink, a young woman takes the stage to sing for a while. It's one of the most beautiful songs Michelle has heard in awhile. She finds herself relaxing more, getting more into her element without Arthur around. He would never show his face at one of these things. It's really a pity, as he has no clue how enjoyable it is to share a small space with people you don't know yet all of you enjoy the same thing.

Maybe it's the thin haze of smoke that permeates air or the fact that she's on her third mojito but she joins in a conversation with some girls at the bar. She finds herself being a lot more open and chatty than normal. They speak about music and life and troubles. When one of girls mentions her crappy ex-boyfriend, Michelle tells her there's more fish in the sea. When another comments about how her boyfriend would always miss important evens, she stress just how much she can relate to that and tells them how Arthur often overworks and forgets about her.

One of the ladies offers a sympathetic pat on her shoulders and tells her there's always more fish in sea.

She assumes Michelle isn't married. Michelle can't find it in her heart to correct her or the rest of them when they make a toast to being single.

The fact is though; she's laughing more than she has all week. There are certain liberations to pretending that she indulges in. She has to talk herself into not feeling guilty about the decision to just be her. Not Arthur's wife, not a stay at home wife but herself, Michelle. When she does, it's easier to pretend. Or it could very well be that she's a little more than tipsy at this point.

"I wanna dance!" one of the girls yells to her.

Gone is the sweet jazz music from when she first came, replaced with something a little more contemporary and upbeat. The lights are even dimmer as an even younger crowd comes into the place. In just a few hours, the quaint little lounge transforms into quite the dance spot.

Michelle readily agrees, sliding off her barstool as the woman pulls her along by the arm. She shoves her phone in her front pocket as it nearly dropped from her fingers in the woman's rush. The music throbs through the floorboards and the bar isn't even visible through the throng of people bumping and grinding to the overpowering beat. People sway and thrust in discordant undulation, limbs twining, bodies melding and caressing in a heaving, panting, sweaty mess. And that is exactly what Michelle wants. She works her way into the middle of this madding crowd and the thick air at the center of the mindless, dancing mob. When was the last time she danced? It's been so long that she instantly gets lost in the music and mayhem of it all.

For a few minutes, the two of them dance together, laughing all the while as they're bumped and pushed about. The smell of alcohol and sweat hangs in the air. Michelle closes her eyes and shakes to the music, spinning around a few times. Her limbs just do their own thing, No one here can stop her or tell what she can or can't do. No one here will forget about her or abandon her for work. Nobody here cares enough to do those things. All of them dance and live for the moment. So she does the same, pushing her unfortunate husband from her mind.

With her thoughts so free, it's no wonder that she takes in stride the sudden hands that settle on her hips, pulling them gently backwards against him. She opens her eyes, noticing her female friend is lost to the crowd. Briefly, she slows rhythm trying to find the other but her new dance partner seems determined to get her moving again. One would think she would escape his grasp but she doesn't. Michelle doesn't even try. Not when one hand proceeds to explore her thigh while the other digs a little dipper into her waist pushing and pulling forward and back, rocking them to the bass that thuds through them. Not when he takes hold of one of her arms and brings it up and around until her fingers circle his neck. Not even when he pivots just enough to allow her leg to slip between his so that her behind is grinding directly against the man's crotch. It's just dancing, she convinces herself.

A pleased huff of air escapes him when he leans his head down and they sway through never-ending remixes of popular song. With little resistance she lets him guide the tempo of her hip, fast for some and a slower grin for others.

It's a nice feeling. It's a 'I want you' feeling and the heat that follows has nothing to do with the surrounding people. It starts inside the pit of her stomach and spreads all over the more they move or when his fingers trail up her ribcage or when he whispers foreign words she can't understand. She's been in this position long enough to tell when she's turned on, judging by what's she's grinding against, so is he. The conviction that should be there is lost to the moment of them indulging in each other, the forbidden and almost dangerous notion of doing this with a complete stranger.

Michelle gasps when his lips wander over her shoulder and up her neck, teeth and tongue caressing the lobe of her ear. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a voice screams that she should not let another man touch her like this. She's a married woman. No amount of pretending will change that.

Her hand that's on his neck is grabbed and it takes Michelle a few seconds to realize he's turning her around. When they're face to face, her heart practically stops. He's older than she imagined but it's just her luck that she prefers older men, Arthur being five years her senior. But this guy, no man, has to be older and, my, is he breathtaking. Even in such poor lighting, she catches glimpses of thick dark hair and dark colored eyes. He has a strong jaw and a beautiful smirk. She only knows that because he's smirking at her. She has no idea what her face looks like in this moment, dumbfounded perhaps. Whatever it is, it doesn't chase him off.

The exact opposite actually, he pulls her back to him so that they are hip to hip, chest to chest. It's a big chest too, with broad shoulders and strong arms that keep her close to him. It has to be dangerous for her body to go through so many changes all at once in such a short amount of time. The alcohol, of course, isn't aiding her at all. Everything feels so slow. So much so that she'd stopped dancing for a few seconds before, slowly moving with him again.

She can feel the effect her dancing has on him but she's very sure he's doing this on purpose. What they're doing isn't exactly dancing, not with the way his hands are all over her. At one point she's sure his hands go under her shirt but she isn't exactly innocent in all of this. Michelle knows very much what he wants when he leans his face in but she always turns her head and offers him her cheek or neck instead. He makes due with little kisses and nips a long her skin. They're heated kisses, searing and burning her sweat-coated skin.

The attraction is there and strong for both of them. Michelle can't deny that even if she wants to. Not with how compliant she's been with him. He's patience, she thinks, with the way she's been avoiding kissing him like he wants. Sometimes he chuckles; sometimes he says something that gets lost to the music. It's a flirtatious teasing game between them, one she knows she'll loose if she keeps playing with fire. And he is fire; igniting dormant feels in her and making her body react to his. Pair that feeling with drinking and something is bound to go terribly wrong.

And it does when his patience with her actions ware thin. A hand takes hold of her face and, this time, Michelle can't turn away. It's so unearthly slow how it happens, bass and heartbeat drums in her ears at the same rhythm. She get's a good look in his eyes before they close. Her breathing comes rugged and quickly, Michelle's eyes widen. She feels trapped but willingly so. An image of Arthur flashes in her mind's eye, snapping her out of the trace this man had her in. She quickly dips her head down so his lips come down on her forehead instead.

He laughs for real this time and pulls back, giving her a curious look but good-natured nonetheless. This man who's put up with her game this long leans his face towards her ear. He speaks just loud enough to be heard over the thundering base in a heavily accented voice that makes her breath hitch and insides warm

"I want to take you home."

* * *

 _A/N: I couldn't help it. I had to do another RomeSey story because I just had too! I hope you like it! It's only six chapters and majority of it is done already so that's reassurance! Also, the title for each is based of the song I listened to the most while typing! In case you were wondering. You probably weren't but whatever! I hope you enjoy!_

 _-CeCe^^_


	2. Part Two

**Chapter Two** :

 _"Who needs redemption from a guiltless crime?"_

 _-'Black Valentine'-Caro Emerald_

* * *

Michelle gives Arthur a smile, all warm lips and white teeth. It stretches across her face and wrinkles her eyes. She gives him all of her attention, nodding in all of the right places. He seems so enthralled and excited with his tale; she can't help but have some of that magic rub off on her. It's always a sight watching the blond pace the floor, one hand on his hip, the other hanging at his side for easier reach to rub through his hair. Arthur's stare on the carpet is so intense, as will his wear of it be if he keeps going in circles like that.

Every once in a while he stops to look at her. It's in those moments that Michelle's eyes widen a fraction, knowing that what's coming next is the 'exciting' part.

"Then he shows me pictures and I'm dumbfounded," Arthur continues, "These pieces have been missing for decades, centuries. Centuries. If Feliciano is telling the truth then we may have stumbled upon a potential gold mine. They don't make furniture pieces in that style anymore. They barely made it so in that century."

"What's the guy saying, this big investor Feliciano keeps talking about?" Michelle asks, genuinely curious.

Arthur rubs his hands through his hair again, a nervous habit he has and huffs. "It's not Feliciano's investor. It's Lovino's, you know, Feliciano's pain in the arse brother." He walks over to his favorite chair in the living room and stretches his legs out in front of him then rest his temple on one hand. "He never deals outside of Naples. He wouldn't dare come to London."

She pulls her legs up on the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest. Michelle presses her toes into the cushions and peers out of the bay window at their moderate sized garden. "Does that mean you'll be leaving for Naples?" she tries to keep her curiosity moderate and not over anxious.

Arthur hesitates and she turns her face to look at him. He's looking contemplative at the coffee table. She resists the temptation to straighten the crease in his brow or curve the dip in his lips.

Michelle sighs, feigning disappointment and looks out of the window again. "So you are leaving."

"I-I'm sorry, Michelle" Arthur quickly apologizes, "I know this whole thing has taken up a lot of my time lately. Please, just grant me this small mercy. You can't find things like this easily. It's a once in a decade find."

She stays silent, watching the bird flock to and fro from the birdbath Arthur made. Her unquiet emotions tease her with possibilities while he's away. Michelle's been hard-pressed not to go back to that jazz lounge the pass few days. She'd be lying to herself if she denied wanting desperate to go back and relive a moment that should not have happened. It's a wonder she managed to get away from that man the way she did. Maybe he was just as drunk as she was when she claimed she needed to use the toilet. Michelle just didn't know how to tell him no when he asked to take her home.

Her heartbeat jumps a little. If she can't be honest with herself, whom can she be honest with? She didn't want to outright tell him no but knew it was wrong. It was only by some ridiculous luck that she managed to slip out and speed walk around the corner and out of his eyesight.

Even if they didn't do anything that night, Michelle's mind often wanders into the 'what ifs'. Her dreams and fantasies as of late revolve around tanned skin and strong hands. She's woken up in the middle of the night panting, the last imagine from her dream being them two making good use of one of those lounge sofas. His face is always mostly obscure with exception to his eyes and smirk. As odd as it may sound, she can even smell him, it's warm earthy scent like sandalwood or Italian leather. It's been several long, lonely quiet evenings that settle into restless and tormenting nights. More often then not, her thoughts drift to him and his scent and his touch and the mysterious unknown of what may have happened if she did go home with him that night.

"Michelle?" She jumps as Arthur's voice cuts into her reverie, "Did you hear what I said?"

She feels her cheeks heat up with embarrassment, "I, no, I was looking at the birds." Michele swallows thickly, hoping he buys the excuse.

Arthur looks thoughtfully at her for a few seconds, glimpses at the birds in the window then back to her again. "You've been spacing out like this for the past few days. Are you all right? Is something the matter? We can talk about it."

Her brain clamors for an excuse through the cloud of impure thoughts about a certain stranger. She looks down and away from her husband. "I was just thinking, you know, about us…and how we used to be. We don't spend as much time together these days."

Much to Michelle's relief Arthur nods in agreement. "I know and it's my fault. But I'm trying to fix that. I know that after this deal goes through with Lovino, I'll have more time for us, for you. That's why I said earlier I'd try to talk Feliciano into letting you come along. It'll be like a small holiday for us. Would you like that?"

Yes. Her answer should be yes but it's not. Not immediately anyway. Her hesitation comes with thoughts of forbidden kisses. It's normal to fantasize, right? Everyone does it. Arthur may very well have a woman he fantasies about so what she's doing is no crime. So why does a sudden feeling of guilt wash over her? Maybe because she's actually considering not going to Naples and a small part of her wishes Feliciano advises against her going. That way, she doesn't have to worry about being home at a certain time. She's the only one there. Arthur will be gone. Anything can happen.

"That would be great," Michelle says with a smile much like the one from earlier but this time it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "But can we plan a separate trip? I'd rather have all of your attention then some of it. And I know you, when you're working your mind is on work, not me."

Arthur, unlike her, has the good graces to appear guilty even if she's the one manipulating him at the moment. There's a high chance that she might not even make it to the lounge. Even if she does, there's an even higher chance that this guy may not even be there. Even if he is, the odds of him remembering her are so absurd that this little charade of hers is completely pointless.

Yet Michelle sells it like she means it. She gets up from the sofa and walks to him. Arthur sits up a little to accommodate when she crawls into his lap. Immediately his hands circle her waist, cradling her nearer to him. Her hands grab his face and tilt it back so that they are eye to eye.

"I love you, Arthur Kirkland. I love your drive and ambition with your job. I know how important it is to you and I don't want to interfere with that."

"—but—,"

"No buts. I know you love me too. And I don't want you to put off the find of the decade. Go to Naples. Maybe I'll meet you there the week after or we can plan a trip somewhere else."

"Where ever you want to go." Arthur supplies quickly.

"Can we go to Seychelles to see my grandparents?"

He gives her a dejected look. "Is this punishment for all the times I haven't kept my word?'

Michelle finds herself laughing and she shakes her head. "Why is that punishment? My grandparents like you."

"No. Your grandparents like _you_ ," Arthur corrects, "They put up with me because we're married."

"You said anywhere I wanted."

He reaches up and cups her cheek, "That I did." Arthur brushes his thumb over her cheekbone and sighs in defeat. "I suppose we should start planning that trip soon?"

She leans in and kisses him briefly, "Focus on Naples first. I'll plan the trip to Seychelles."

* * *

 _She opens her eyes to the soft, humming sound gusting out of distant speakers, finding herself on her back in a bed of cool leather. Nothing is visible save for the black sky overhead, the endless expanse dotted with millions of stars. The sound of something akin to water lapping gently against somewhere resonates quietly in the distance._

 _A moment later, a drop of something warm and wet lands against her cheek, eliciting a hazy blink of bemusement at the sky and the utter absence of storm clouds. Another drop lands against the side of her mouth, and a slow, exploratory sweep of her tongue yields a sweet, fruity taste._

 _Before she could contemplate where the drops of her favorite wine come from, a sound breaks the silence._

 _"Are you ready?"_

 _She blinks at the resonance of the warm, familiar voice, husky and quiet in its nearness, and lowers her gaze._

 _Deep brown eyes glitter back at her from within the cold blackness, the rest of his face inexplicably shadowed and undefined. Clothes rustle and a weight shifts against her side, and as she lowers her gaze she hazily realizes he's situated between her knees. He shifts more and tilts until she's straddling him, her knees pressing into the sides of his ribs._

 _Slowly, she lowers her eyes to his obscured face, searching for features the night obscured from her during their twilight tryst. Another lick of the lips yields more of that sweet wine taste, and faintly she realizes that he's sat the bottle off to the side._

 _Those indistinguishable features remain obscured, and for a long time she merely stares at opaque eyes, searching them as they stare back at her. A moment later, his full, moist lips part, voice emerging soft, hoarse and heavily accented._

 _"…Do it."_

 _She doesn't know why she obeys but she does. Her weight against his torso increases as she leans forward, and for a moment she closes her eyes in contentment, feeling the familiar, increasing pressure of their hips against one another. Then her knuckles brush the underside of his jaw and almost immediately she opens her eyes at the contact, something vaguely painful and akin to excitement clenching in the pit of her stomach. When did her hands get so close to his face?_

 _"Wait."_

 _She freezes, looking down at him in confusion._

 _"Not like this," he continues, voice hushed as if they were in danger of being discovered carrying out an act of utmost intimacy, an act in which words were not only worthless, but inappropriate._

 _She says nothing, merely waiting for his next instruction, and he smiles slowly and reassuringly, reaching up with warm fingers to take her hands away from his cheek. She releases it easily; feeling her pulse throb almost painfully in her temples, throat growing tight with anticipation as he reaches forward, fingers brushing over cloth, searching until they encountered the warm skin of her hands. Purposefully, his gaze holds hers as he curves his fingers over her own, taking a moment to relish the warmth before tightening his grip. He tugs her hands forward, forcing her to lean closer. The susurrate resonances of lapping in the distance and soothing jazz music fades beneath the cacophony of her throbbing pulse, which doubles in tempo when he presses her hands, palm-down, against his chest, eyes never straying from hers._

 _"Like this," he tells her in a hoarse, clandestine whisper, silver vapor escaping from between his lips._

 _The feel of his skin is heavy against her palm, eliciting a barrage of goose bumps against her chilled flesh. Her fingers slid upwards, the warm friction vaguely reminding her that he is shirtless._

 _Her mouth dries with excitement by the time her fingertips curve around to touch the back of his neck, thumb pressed into the throbbing pulse points of his throat. His gaze is unreadable when she stares at him, mesmerized and intoxicated with the sheer force of anticipation as he holds her wrists, tempted to press her hands down himself._

 _"Say you want me," he murmurs, grip tightening on her wrists. "Say you need me, Michelle."_

 _Her breath hitches and she licks her lips before her hands move upwards slightly and she suddenly shifts her weight, knees digging into the leather as she leans forward, her growing proximity in sync with his mounting pulse against her thumb. He stares up into her eyes as the ends of her hair brush over his face, a cool breeze gently cajoling the strands into movement._

 _"I want you,"_

 _Her whispered voice seems to reverberate from somewhere within his chest, she is that close, tremors of desperation and misery tracing her undertone._

 _"I need you."_

 _Her other hand goes up and tangles itself in his dark hair, unable to resist the burning temptation of heightening the intimacy. His hands feverishly searching both clothe and skin for something to grip. His fingers curve over the elbow of her left arm, squeezing with enough force to bruise, his other hand sliding between the wayward brown locks brushing over his face. Clenching a fistful against her temple, he tugs until her hair drapes his face and she is close enough to bite, the sudden increase in proximity heightening the weight of her hands against his throat._

 _Through the harsh gasps on both their parts, the messy web of black hair that obscures her, the darkness of their closeness, she manages to make out one wide, brown eye, the lashes tracing brush against her skin._

 _"I want you," he whispers breathlessly, intoxicated by the sensation of her fingers around his throat, inebriated on the closeness, the intimacy. The suddenness of the kiss mixed with anticipation all but make her ache, eyes drifting shut beneath an onslaught of dizzying euphoria, lips parting greedily to meet his. His tongue flickers roughly against her. His hand trails from her arm down to the curve of her backside. She inhales sharply in reaction._

 _Pleasure ensnares her, rolling over her in cresting waves, drowning them in ecstasy, and as black oblivion presses in at the edges of her vision, he dugs his nails into the back of her thighs and clenches at the fistful of hair. Words escaping in harsh, mindless whispers between heaving gasps, tongue and teeth alternate in dizzying patterns along the side of her neck and down to her collarbone. She makes a curious noise, somewhere between a gasp and a groan when his hand slides between them and into the front of her pants…_

Michelle jerks awake to the sounds of her own heaving, choked gasps, hands immediately flying up to her throat as she rolls onto her side and props herself up on one arm, wide-eyed and sweating, reeling with the sudden rush of blood to her head.

 _A dream,_ she realizes disbelievingly.

The other side of the bed is empty, the deep hue of dawn illuminating the tousled covers. Where is Arthur, she wonders? Glancing at the nearby clock, she grimaces at the sight of the glowing, red digital display.

It reads _6:33 AM_.

"Oh God," she mutters under her breath, slumping back against the bed, hands smoothing back her hair and stilling over her face, breath held momentarily as intensely vivid fragments of the dream resurfaces in her mind.

Eventually, Michelle lowers her hands and touches her neck again, fingers lingering on her pulse as it gradually slows to a normal tempo, tracing skin that should've been mottled with bruises from biting and sucking. Opening her eyes, she half-expected to see wisps of brown curly hair entangled between her fingers, and releases a slow breath when she finds them devoid of the broken strands. She isn't sure how to respond to see them shaking slightly.

Letting her arm drop back to her side, Michelle idly fingers the bed sheet, staring up at the ceiling, mind beleaguered with an onslaught of thoughts and recollections. Vaguely, she recalls the sound of water in the distance in her fantasy and realizes that it's coming from the bathroom. Right, Arthur is leaving for Naples today.

She tosses the sheet away and moves to stand just as the water shuts off. Arthur immerges from the bathroom, a towel around his waist and the other in his hand as he rubs behind his ear.

"Did I wake you?" he asks in concern.

She shakes her head in the negative. "Not directly. I just noticed you weren't in the bed when I turned over. What time is your flight again?"

"I need to be at the airport by eight but I planned to get Alfred on the way."

"I'll drive you," Michelle declares and stands. She stretches her arms high above her head and shakes away all thoughts and feelings from a moment ago.

"I thought you said you wanted to sleep in last night? I planned on taking a taxi to Alfred's."

She's already in the bathroom when she answers him. "I want to take you."

Arthur offers no other rebuttal and they make it to Alfred's in time enough to have a quick breakfast of toast, eggs and tea or coffee. They make it to the airport with time to spear for goodbyes. Arthur hugs her and kisses her cheek, promising to be home by early next week. Alfred makes it a point to tease them on being a sappy married couple. In the end, Michelle stands alone, waving them off as they go pass security. The rest of her day is spent trying to keep busy and distracted with minute things. She wakes up three times in the middle of night, each fantasy more vivid and risqué than the last. In the end, since Arthur is not around, Michelle gives in and relives the tension by exploring her own body, letting her mind run as wild as it wants to.

* * *

"Let's go somewhere," Lili, Michelle's closes friend suggest from across the table. Michelle lowers her cup a fraction and blinks once without a word.

She's been good this whole week, she thinks. Housework kept her busy. She's done shopping, laundry, talked to Arthur, read and did other miniscule things to preoccupy her mind during the day. At night, her mind reminds her of things she represses. She wakes up in sweats from dreams to close to reality. Sleeping is hard without fantasying first. That starts off ever so slowly; it makes her quiver with imaginary sensual kisses, tasteful. Fantasies come with touches and caresses from hands she wishes weren't her own.

But she's been good, Michelle thinks.

"Arthur is gone, maybe we can do something fun?"

Michelle's mouth goes completely dry even though she's just taken a huge glop from her thirsty quencher fruity drink. Even with all of her fantasies, she's kept herself away from the lounge, resisted temptation by locking herself in the room. She didn't go back to the lounge in the days Arthur has been gone. It's been hard but she's put it off with great effort.

Now, with the offer presented so innocently in a friendly girl's night out, Michelle can think of no other place. It's the first thing on her mind, followed by the thoughts of a certain man and every ounce of sexiness he embodies.

"…There's this new place that's just open,"

Her grip on the cup tightens and she takes a deep breath, refusing to have such thoughts now. Not here, not on the patio of a café in the middle of the day. Her knees automatically press together in some weird act to stop her body from running away from her.

"I heard a lot of good things about it, too. I think it'll be fun," Lili goes on and picks at her brownie, "Plus, when were the last time we've done something?"

College. That's the last time she and Lili actually went out to do something. Marriage sort of pulls her away from that scene. What with Arthur's travels, her sometimes going with him and taking care of the house, Michelle hasn't had time to spend more than a few hours, usually in the day, with one of her best friends.

She smiles softly at Lili, "So what's the name of this new place?"

Lili perks up with a cheery smile on her doll like face. "It's not really new. I sort of just heard about it. But they say the beer is cheap and the crowd isn't as rowdy as these other places.

Michelle hides her disappointment. "A bar with cheap beer? I'm not surprised. You're Vash's sister after all."

Lili blushes a little and digs her fork into a melting chocolate chip. "It was his suggestion actually. "

That makes her grin more honestly and Michele finds herself laughing. The though of Vash suggesting Lili do anything out of following and shadowing his ever step is a surprise. When she actually thinks about it, this isn't much different. It's a bar he's gone to and something he thinks would be appropriate for his kid sister. Michelle loves Vash like a brother but she does think he can be a bit overbearing when it comes to Lili. But her friend seems so hopeful and excited about a chance to do something like this that she reluctantly agrees. It's not the jazz lounge so she should be okay. It's a bar on the other side of town, a completely different crowd, scene and atmosphere. It's more laid back than loud and Michelle hopes against hope that her night will go smoothly without incident.

It starts off just that way, the two of them at a small booth. The bar is called Cambridge and is quite small and quaint. She can see the whole of the place from her seat in the very back. It's all woodwork, from the walls to the tables. There's a rustic sort of cabin-like feel, reminiscent to a small town bar one would find high in the Alps. She can see why Vash likes this place so much. There isn't much in terms of music; instead, chatter fills the air. There's a dartboard were three gentleman have been playing a game for the past two hours. She and Lili secretly bet on who they think will win. The guys catch on to them eventually though and, soon, they are thrown into a game as cheerleaders for their individual picks.

"C'mon, sit right here in this chair, baby, right by me." The blond, Michelle's pick, pats a chair and beckons her to the middle of the bar. "Blow on the dart, you know, like they do in the casino."

She does, a giddy sort of excitement as Lili is also dragged to the space across from her to support the taller brunet. She's blushing and laughing as the man tries to get her to tell him where she thinks he'll land the dart.

Michelle blows on her dart and even gives the man a peck on the cheek for luck as he readies himself for his turn. She cradles her beer and winks at Lili who snickers into her hands, drink half full.

"Thirty!" the man shouts, throwing his arms up in the air in victory. "That puts me like almost a hundred points above you."

"Hell no, bro," the brunet says, going to the board to calculate, "You math is shit."

Lili waves him over then whispers something in his ear. The man looks as if he listens intently to her words. A grin breaks out on his face and he nods enthusiastically, reading his darts.

Michelle is having fun, she tells herself. She's relaxed and laughing and enjoying spending time with Lili. She's here to spend girl time. She's here because she wants to catch up with her friend. If she is just there for an innocent fun, why does she find her eyes wandering the punters there, and why does her gaze fix so avidly on the doors whenever they swung open with a sigh? It takes effort for her concentrate solely on the game and these nice gentlemen and their playful banter.

She manages for the next hour to keep her eyes from the door and on Lili and the dart games. She gets up once to go to the bathroom and comes back to take a seat as a new game starts. Her pick, the blond, is forced to buy drinks for their little group. Michelle offers to support the bill in the name of good fun. She goes with him to the bar to order everyone's drink of choice. They chat for a little bit about this and that while they wait. The beers come; Michelle takes two in her hands when she has an overwhelming feeling that someone is looking at her. She doesn't brush it off as easily as some would, because Michelle's learned over her years that if there is one thing she can always rely on it is her instincts.

She slows her steps back to her chair and takes an otiose glance around the place. And sure enough she catches a bright pair of golden brown eyes with her own; eyes that look quickly away the second they make contact.

Michelle bites her lip at the sudden spike in her heart rate because she _knows_ those eyes. They are lighter than she remembers but the lighting in here is a bit better but there's no mistaking that smothering gaze or that strong jaw with it's light stubble on tanned skin and a knowing smirk. How in the world did he find her here of all places? She looks again, and he looks right back. Does he recognize her at all? Has she filled his thoughts like he's filled hers? Does he dream about her or touch himself to thoughts of what she would do to him?

"Yeah! Drinks for everyone."

The shout nearly startles her to drop the beers she's holding. Michelle sits them down with shaking hands. It's such an effort not to turn around and look. She fidgets and smiles at her new pub friends, going as far as to go stand by Lilli's chair so her back is directly to him. None of it stops the prick of anticipation and, _hope_ , that he does remember her and maybe…maybe…

"Michelle," Lili whispers, "Sorry, but I'm getting a bit sleepy." She confesses with a stifled yawn. Michelle can feel the reigns of escape; she looks around the bar for a clock to tell her the exact time but finds her eyes drifting elsewhere. A few purposeful glances later and he's sitting his drink down, sliding out of the booth. She looks away quickly when it appears that he's sauntering over towards the dartboard, towards her.

Her nails dig into the back of the chair. "Are you playing another game?" And he's right there, standing cattycorner to her and so close his body heart rolls over her in suffocating waves. Her throat goes dry once more. "I'd like to play, too," he finishes in a deep Italian accent.

Lili looks up at her and then over her shoulder at the man, obviously. Her green eyes fixes on Michelle's browns almost pleading. She's tired. Michelle can see that.

"I don't think I can do another game," the blonde admits and stands up, "Did you want to stay?"

Michelle opens her mouth but nothing short of air comes out. She cautions a look over her shoulder. It's a very very bad idea as it makes her legs feel like jelly and all she can think of is music, touches, soft playful kisses and the anticipation of so much more. He smiles down at her and, quite unexpectedly, a hand brushes down her arm and over the curve of her elbow.

"We can play a round," he suggests in a friendly tone despite the tiny little tickles he's giving her from brush his thumb over her skin.

Michelle doesn't even realize her mouth moves, let along what she actually says. "I can go a round."

"Are you sure?" It's Lili's voice that draws her attention with a hint of concern. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

Michelle quickly shakes her head and forces a smile in her friend's direction. "It's fine, Lil, I know him." It's not totally a lie. They have met before.

"I knew you looked familiar," the man speaks with a hint of amusement.

Lili hesitates, looking between the both of them. After a few moments though, her sleepiness wins out and she nods, asking Michelle to let her know when she gets back and to not stay out too late. Michelle assures all these things and even walks Lili to the door. She turns back to find him leaning casually against one of the support beams. She asks him if he wants to sit down.

"No _._ " Comes the unexpected reply, and for a moment Michelle wonders if she's entirely misread the interaction. Until,

"Would you like to come with me?"

Michelle has to check herself not show her utter surprise at his boldness. He's stunning, of that there is no doubt. But his confidence, it is his confidence that draws her to him. She knows what he wants and he did not hesitate to ask for it. Michelle has never met such an audacious man, and it fascinates her immediately.

And for a moment she says nothing, just stands and shifts her feet for a few seconds. She licks her lips and looks around the room to waste a few more seconds before giving him an answer.

"Were did you have in mind?" It's her voice this time.

The man smiles a smile that sends a shiver of anticipation up her spine.

* * *

 _A/N: And so begins the slow decent!_


	3. Part Three

**Chapter Three** : 

_"Would you mind touching me?"_

 _-'Would you mind'-_ Janet Jackson

* * *

The man in her arms groans as he draws her nipple into his mouth, and she throws her head as she arches forward involuntarily, blanketing them in a curtain of saturated hair. Her hands clasp at his strong shoulders, desperately trying to hold on as he pushes her against the tiles, holding her up by her thighs, which currently wrap around his naked hips. Warm water cascades over her head and shoulders, and streams over her breasts and into his mouth where tan lips meet chocolate velvet; lips surrounded by a short, rough stubble – it agitates her brown skin making the once bronze surface blush furiously. More water flowing from the showerhead sprays directly onto his head turning his chocolate hair to an unusual deep black color.

His strong fingers dig deeply into her thighs, and she hisses at the painful yet strangely pleasurable feeling. He unlatches himself from her breast to crush their lips together again, his tongue swiftly entering her mouth as his arms slowly lower her to the floor. His fingers spider-walk up over her abdomen to cup her breasts firmly in his hands, causing a long, low moan from her throat; their tan, callous surface and the latent power that simmers beneath, a magnificent juxtaposition to the creamy, pliant mounds encapsulated within them.

He turns her, both slowly yet urgently; gently and firmly at the same time, and she turns her head as her body goes – trying to keep their lips connected as long as she is able – before all she can do is press her warm cheek to the cool damp tiles. She feels the heat then as his own body meets her back, and his arms cross around her; his right hand sliding over her breasts, squeezing the first in its path before closing over the second and remaining there, her abdomen clenching as his left hand passes briefly over her pelvis before gripping to her furthermost hip.

She gasps as his lower forearm suddenly thrust her upwards and backwards, pressing her firmly against his own groin and the burning firm flesh and muscle that she feels there, then lowering her gently to the ground before thrusting her backwards again and repeating the action. They continue like this – a rhythmic, pulsing, dance of passion, their bodies sliding together, water intermingling with the perspiration of their pleasure, trickling between their skin and dripping into the eddy which swirl at their feet.

She recognizes the signs as her breathing changes, its rhythm rapidly becoming sporadic and disjointed, and although the man behind her has not yet penetrated her, has not even touched so much as a millimeter of his flesh to the cleft between her thighs, she feels a hot flush pulsate out from deep in her belly, and a rolling wave of pure ecstasy tremor through her.

His pace increases as he recognizes the change; the rocking forward of his hips more intense, each pressing together of their flesh applies with greater force than its predecessor. Not only the friction of the actions themselves, but the very _concept_ of what is causing this sublime feeling has her turned on all the more. She doesn't know anything about him, and yet she knows _everything_ about him. She is as empty as she has ever been; yet she is full to the brim. They were fucking, yet they were not _fucking_. In some ways, they were barely touching more intimately than if they were two strangers standing pressed together in an overcrowded bus on a bumpy road. Apart from their obvious nudity of course. Although she has a feeling that it won't matter if they _are_ fully clothed, she will still be writhing in ecstatic pleasure.

Her eyes squeeze tight and her mouth falls open as she feels that familiar starburst within her, and the world around her fades from her senses as she feebly tries to grip the slippery tiles against her fingers, and her legs turn to jelly beneath her.

The first sensation she feels again is his wrists, slipping beneath her armpits, and she slumps into them as she feels the last of her orgasm fade. He waits patiently, still mold to her back, his face presses into the curve of her neck. He knows exactly when she's ready – he always does – and then he turns her gently to face him and she knows that this time, when he finally enters her and they join in the most intimate of ways, it will still be no different from the last. Although they connect as superlatively as any two people physically can be, their pleasure cannot be bested. Every time they are intimate he takes her on a journey that rises to the heights of Everest, till her ecstasy throws her from the peak and she floats back down.

Now, as she feels his hand drop to turn her, and once more she feels the rising anticipation begin to slowly throb deep within her, she cannot wait to climb back up, and do it all over again.

He sits, perched in an occasional chair next to the inside front door of the moderate sized and blandly decorated hotel room. He's pulling his socks back on when Michelle walks back into the room from the ensuite, wearing a small white towel around her body and another around her head like a turban. Her clothes litter the floor, evidence of the eager state in which they both usually arrive, and she bends to pick the items up along the way back to the other side of the room, following the trail which leads like breadcrumbs from the bathroom to the foot of the bed. When she gets there, she eases off the towel, still moderately body-shy around him as she eases on her clothes.

Michelle can feel him watch as she pulls her skirt on. It's black, and pleated at the base like a fan, coming to rest at her mid-thigh. She carefully maneuvers the towel in order to lift her arms into her bra. She goes for the towel on her head, letting her long damp hair spill onto her shoulders, before rubbing it furiously into her hair in an attempt to dry it.

Finished, she tosses the towel on top of the other on the bed and pulls her black shirt on. Michelle makes it a point to move with purpose and not linger longer than necessary. She reaches for her keys and bag that holds her toiletries.

He stands from his chair fully clothes, as he always does– a long ingrained propriety instilled by his mother no doubt – although, as usual there is no need for such pleasantries and courtesy. Michelle spares no glance for her recent lover, as she takes the three or four steps to the door, turns the handle and abruptly exits his life. Not to be seen again for the next (she does the math swiftly in his head), roughly . . . one hundred and sixty five and a half hours.

As swiftly and as incomprehensibly as it began, their act is over.

They are strangers once more.

* * *

Arthur doesn't suspect a thing. He doesn't know the real reason why, every Thursday, Michelle leaves the house at the same time and comes home at about the same time. He does notice that she looks different, a sort of glow that follows her around that he can't place. She tells him that it's a new yoga style, hot yoga that she found online. She knows it's something he will never be into and therefore won't ask too many questions about it. It helps because he doesn't suspect a thing when she takes money from their joint account every week or packs a bag small duffle dag. He thinks it's her yoga clothes. He doesn't ask why she always comes home smelling freshly of soap and shampoo. It's hot yoga. They sweat. She showers after, end of story.

Sometimes he's home when she comes back. Sometimes he's not. It's always better when he isn't though, that way she doesn't have to greet him with a kiss after her mouth has been with another.

Michelle goes straight to the bedroom and drops her bag on the floor. She isn't wearing any panties under her skirt—a new occurrence that her lover has come to enjoy greatly—so she quickly finishes them out of the bag and slips them on. She hears the front door open and makes quick work of her current attire, slipping on some sweatpants and a thin undershirt. She's walking to the laundry with the contents when Arthur greets her on the way, looking tired and exhausted.

"How was yoga?" he asks after they share a brief kiss.

Michelle shrugs nonchalantly and gathers other clothes from the laundry hamper. "It's fine. I don't really see any results though. I don't understand the difference between that and regular yoga."

Her husband nods and watches as she feels the washing machine. "You've only been going for two months so," Arthur pauses to yawn, "give it more time, love. Alfred's always saying that working out takes time and all that. Plus, you seem more content these days. I think it's good for you."

She keeps her back to him, biting her lip a bit guilty as she adds more clothes. A sigh escapes and she looks over her shoulder at him. "I wasn't going to quit. I was thinking of maybe going another day out of the week. They have Tuesday classes too."

He gives her a lazy smile. "If that's what you want."

It is what she wants and that's very very bad.

Michelle closes the machine and starts the load; instructing Arthur to make sure his current dirty attire is in the hamper for the next round of washing.

They move and act like any other married couple would. They have dinner. Arthur suggests watching a movie together and they cuddle on the couch until he falls to sleep. It's then that her mind gets the chance to wander as her head rests on his shoulder.

Michelle presses her eyes closed and reflects on her earlier tryst. Oh, in the beginning, her train of thought is much different, more giddy and exciting. They are full of accomplishment, and contentment. Full of that feeling that you get when you think you've gotten away with something so unspeakable it's amazing. That is back when this had just been a harmless bit of fun.

Michelle sighs, and it immediately reminds her of the subtle change. Now when she reflects, it feels much more like regret, with a little bit of discontent thrown in. Not to mention confusion. There is a whole _lot_ of that in there.

She let it happen. She let that unspoken agreement between them that they inwardly promised to one another when no information other than what pleased them was shared, happen. Michelle was so sure she would _never_ let it happen. Yet it has.

She's got him into her head.

She doesn't know how someone who's name she never thought to ask can make her feel so much in such a short period of time. Michelle finds herself doing very dangerous things lately. Things she shouldn't do. Things that is not apart of their agreement. If he notices, he doesn't say anything really or change how they interact and that is, somehow, so damn irritating. He in all honesty, fascinates her, yet every purposeful thing that she does in their small amount of time together that he doesn't react to eventually becomes very frustrating.

She isn't talking about the sex – the sex is, as it always is, fantastic – she's talking about the little things he seemingly ignores. The habitual things, the nuances, the subtleties, all what she collectively refers to as the 'flickers'; the small glimpses into the real woman. These are the moments that she isn't just putting on some act. When it isn't just some harmless game that they were playing, and she lets go of herself, and that unbreakable mask slips, even if only for a fraction of a second, and he can see her for the person that she truly is.

Michelle isn't aware of when the transition starts. Some things she can't help or hide. Like the way she habitually bites her bottom lip when he touches her just right. The tiniest curl of the corner of her lip when something tickles her. The way she digs her nails into his shoulders when she comes. Those things come naturally, like poker tells. She doubts that's what tips the scale in the opposite direction

It's the way her eyes begin to, very infrequently, flicker up to lock onto his. For some reason every time they did this, her heart beats a little faster.

To some, it seems natural for her to look him in the eye. In fact, he doesn't even try to hide the way he looks at her, all of her, every time they meet. Michelle just avoids looking at _him_ for her own protection. Not once in the beginning during the actual sex act, did she make eye contact. They are always closed or on the ceiling or looking at his mouth or the space between his neck and shoulders. Never in the eye.

But now, and she doesn't know why, more frequently than not their eyes lock. And, for the briefest moment, Michelle feels as if she is looking straight into his soul. His eyes are so beautiful, a clear, auburnish brown color that compliments his seemingly golden skin and chocolate hair perfectly, and his thick dark lashes are ornately framed windows to his identity. He is inside that beautiful cage, and she finds herself becoming more and more curious about what is locked within. She finds herself wanting him to peer into her eyes and feel the same. She wants him to want to know more. She wants something other than just their weekly escapades.

She wants _more_.

What that more is, Michelle is afraid to find out. What they have doesn't fit into a category of a relationship. It's less than that. More like an agreement, really. It's just sex. It's just someone looking at her and demanding her presence, her voice, her touch, everything.

It's just sex.

It's not a relationship or a love affair. It is just her mouthing softly at his collarbone. It's just his hand lifting itself up on its own to drag those long black strands of hair off her face and back. It's just sex that, the first time it happened after that night at the bar when he teases her about that time in the lounge. He tells her he's got a room in a hotel if she wants to use it. Somehow, in that moment, Michelle convinces herself that it will only be sex with someone who has never chosen between her or his work, but who sits with smoldering dark eyes, catching soft lips between white teeth, incense and candle smoke following him like a sweet perfume that shouldn't catch her the way it does.

But it does.

So she follows.

And they fuck. She knows she should feel ashamed about it, about what they do, but neither of them do. It's just sex.

That's what Michelle desperately reminds herself of and has to keep reminding herself of when her eyes drift and lock on his. There is nothing more to this than the act itself, yet she rushes through Friday to Wednesday, just waiting for the next Thursday to come. Waiting for him at that very same bar so they can go to the same hotel and get a room for the evening. They don't go on dates: he doesn't take her out to dinner. He doesn't buy tickets to things for them to go see. There is nothing remotely romantic about it yet Michelle craves each interlude as quickly as the last ends.

And she enjoys it.

She likes those lips that are far softer than they look. She likes running her tongue over them and enjoys the intimate touch of letting his lip brush back and forth under her nose as they share a breath. Those moments when both of their eyes are half open and he rolls on top of her so she can't immediately get up. Especially when her arms twine around his neck, her hips wait under his while thick legs coax and pull him down. Michelle's lips work their way up from his chest and along his neck, pausing so her tongue and teeth can work together on his throat until he lets out a breath a bit faster than he means to. She celebrates with triumphant little ' _hah…'_ before she stops curling her fingers in the patch of hair sitting on his chest…

Michelle has to squeeze her already closed eyes harder to stop her current train of thought. She rubs her face wearily as she is brought back to the reality of her couch and her husband whose shoulder she's currently using as a pillow. She sits up and turns off the television but waits in the dark for a few more seconds.

In the beginning it is so easy. No tiresome small talk. No uncomfortable silences, or awkward moments when you realize your lover is on an entirely different page. No arguments about who loves whom more, or who's being the most selfish.

 _I think I might be spoiling this._ She thinks to herself and rouses Arthur with gentle words to wake.

 _I've started enjoying this too much_.

Arthur grumbles half-asleep and in the dark, much like he is about what she really does on Thursday. She turns on the table lap so he can see the way to their bedroom better. And as she follows after him, turning off every light on the way and getting clothes from the machine that she will fold in the morning, Michelle hangs her head and laughs darkly because she's thinking. And she doesn't like what she's thinking of.

Because if it's not just sex for her anymore, than what is it?

If only she'd known, foreseen her emotions getting involved like this then maybe she would have reconsidered.

And maybe she wouldn't be living his life around Thursday evenings.

* * *

 _A/N: And it just keeps going down..._


	4. Part Four

**Chapter Four** :

 _"It takes a lot to know a woman, a lot to comprehend what's coming."_

 _-'It Takes A lot To Know A Man'-Damien Rice_

* * *

"What are you looking at Michelle?"

Back against the rail on the pier, she bites her thumbnail, gaze fixed in the distance.

"Do you see someone you know?"

Her brown eyes flicker to Arthur and she smiles prettily at him. "I thought I did", she tells him.

Arthur turns and looks in the direction her eyes were once fixated. He squeezes the hand he's holding and slides his fingers until their entwined. "I don't see anyone familiar."

She pushes off the rail, on her tiptoes and tilts her head to catch his eye. He turns her way, looking slightly startled at her sudden proximity.

"It doesn't really matter," she soothes, leans in and pecks his cheek. "Because I'm here with you." Her kiss moves towards the corner of his lip.

Arthur's got this adorable blush dusting the apples of his cheeks. But after a moment, he too leans in; eyes closed, and kisses her. Michelle knows his eyes are closed because hers are open, glancing discreetly at the person in the far distance on the other side of the pier. She can't tell from this distance. All she can make out is a head of curls that she may or may not be familiar.

A pleasant sigh is the signal for her to close her eyes again. Michelle angles her head to deepen their kiss, to show she's giving him her full attention. As always though, Arthur pulls back because he doesn't really like public displays of affection. But he takes it as a sign of her affection. He puts his free hand on her face and pulls back to rest his forehead against her.

"I love you. You know that, right?"

She swallows thickly and closes her eyes, their lashes mingling in their closeness.

"I know," Michelle whispers.

"And I'll always be here for you."

"I know, Arthur."

A pause.

"Why won't you say it?"

Michelle pulls back and looks up at him curiously. "What?"

Blond brows draw down in confusion or disbelief or both. "I love you. You haven't told me that in days."

Her eyes dance away from his, down to the side and then back up again. "That's not true. I told you yesterday."

"When?"

"Last night, when you were sleeping. I whispered it in your ear before I went to sleep."

He smirks a little and she tilts her head at him with a funny look. "Did you sleep good last night?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Are you taking credit for my sweet sleep?"

"Sweet words make sweet sleep." Michelle kisses him briefly. "I love you, Arthur Kirkland."

The hand on her face slides down to her waist and he pulls her into a hug. Michelle gets her arms around his neck and fixes her head in the curve of his neck. The wind from the river blows between. A kiss presses gently to her neck. She looks in the distance at a fading head of curly hair turning the corner.

She still can't discern if it is him or not.

* * *

Their usual room is unavailable and there is something about that minor inconsistency, that minute deviation from their plans that sets the course for a barrage of things in Michelle's mind.

There is a sofa in this room. They make good use of it. They're a mess of tangled limbs with her arms and legs all wrapped around him, a hand tangles in her hair while the other wraps around her lower back.

She wants to say his name. She wants to moan it when his lips latches on to her throat and sucks hard on the spot where her pulse races. Michelle is so close and he's breathless and she's gripping finger's full of his hair. They're both covered in each other's sweat. He's sucking and licking at her neck. She bites hard on her lower lip, digging her heels into his back. Her gut clenches and tightens with the need to release and, god, she wants to hear her name on his lips.

His hips adjust and hit her a different way. Michelle gasps; back arching off the sofa as her orgasms rocks her.

" _Ahh, baby_ ," she whines with shaky breath. She trembles and shakes and clings desperately to his form. He let's her while she pants, ' _ah, baby'_ over and over until the tremors settle.

It's not his name but it's as close to it as she can get.

* * *

Michelle makes sure to book their flight on a Friday. She was tempted to push her appointment up earlier the day before but, as it is, she has no contact information for him. So she and Arthur leave for Seychelles early Friday morning. It's the first trip they've gone on that isn't about Arthur's job.

Her grandmother has a nice little guesthouse for them when they get there. He likes to joke that her grandmother doesn't like him but that's not true. Michelle's grandmother adores Arthur as a person. They share a love for tea and she gets that they are married and need personal space.

So they make good use of the guesthouse at night when they come from the sandy beaches not to far from the house. Arthur is always so gentle with her. His touches are delicate, intimate, always putting her first. He holds her hands, fingers laced above her head, kisses her cheek and whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

Michelle keeps her eyes closed, consumed by thoughts of another saying those things, whispering to her lovingly. They move in sync. It's not just sex. It's lovemaking. It's them feeling and knowing each, rocking and moving with one another. It's soft and sensual and so _different_.

" _Michelle_ ," Arthur breathes but it just doesn't sound the same without that husky Italian accent.

But she's close. She can feel it. Mere seconds later, she feels the hot flush pulsate out from deep in her belly, a rolling wave of pure ecstasy.

" _Ahh, baby_ ," Michelle cries and squeezes Arthur's hands as all of her strength goes to grabbing and holding that orgasm as long as possible.

It's moments like these that she's grateful she doesn't know his name.

* * *

"You're wearing make-up." Arthur observes from behind her. His gaze reflects back at her from the mirror.

Michelle puts down the lipsticks she has suspended near her lips and watches him. "I just thought I'd try something new."

He doesn't respond for a long while and she fears that maybe he suspects her of something. She mentally talks herself into remaining calm.

After a moment, Arthur finally speaks, "We're just going on a plane home. You don't need all of that."

Black brows draw together in confusion. "I just felt like putting on make-up." She counters, more than a bit on the defensive.

"You've been wearing it a lot lately."

"It's just make-up, Arthur. I don't see what your problem is. You don't like it?"

He steps closer into the tiny bathroom. "Why are you getting defensive with me?"

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. I made a simple observation and you're snapping for no reason," Arthur retorts, "I just noticed that, recently, you put it on and I personally don't think it's necessary."

Michelle purses her lips and glares at him. "I don't always have to do what you think is necessary. Sometimes I do stuff because _I_ like it."

Arthur opens his mouth then closes it. He huffs and shakes his head, leaving out of the small bathroom without another word. She continues with her make-up in case there is some small chance that she sees 'him' at some point between the airport and getting home.

* * *

For some reason, they're both eager. He doesn't even get out of the car at the bar. It's parked in front and pulls off as soon as her pulls up. Michelle grips the steering wheel in heated anticipation when the hotel comes in view.

Her face presses against the cold glass and he's right behind her, only the brass rail circling the small space keeping her body from standing flush against the surface. The metal forces her hips back against his comfortably, or uncomfortably, and Michelle has the mirror to thank for reminding her of how hard she's breathing.

They barely make it out of the elevator.

"How far...?" Her voice is heavy with lust as he lets go of the thigh he's been palming through her black jeans, his fingers slipping away from her hip where her shirt is pushed up.

"End of the hall."

"Carry me-" she's on him with arms draped over his shoulders, hot lips on hers and a sweet tongue.

Her eyes are closed when they stumble into the quiet corridor, and it's too late at night for them to make a lot of noise in the hotel. He wraps his arm tight around the small of her back before he does what she says.

There is nothing sensual about the way he presses and pins her to the door. But Michelle's _missed_ this. It's only been a week, like it always is, but it's a week away without the possibility of seeing him anywhere.

The key-card whispers through the reader and the lip-lock breaks so they can get inside, and he knocks the door closed with his heel and her back is against it once more.

Michelle doesn't know why he's so impatient but imagines that he's missed her too even if he didn't know she left the country. She needs to think this.

They're huffing and grinding against each other already, neither of them barely out of their clothes. Hot flashes burst from her skin when she feels his hand slide between the front of her jeans. She moves with him, desperate and needy. He whispers things in Italian, stubble scraping her cheek when he nips at her chin. She wishes more that ever that she knew the language to understand what he's saying but that doesn't make it less arousing.

"Where?" Michelle can forgive him for being so curt with her because she can barely get words out herself.

"Bed,"

In one swoop, he carries her and she's towering over him, pressing her hips down on his groin while his hands go under her shirt.

Nine times.

That's how many times their eyes lock during this. Michelle counts. And every time they meet, a new intense emotional longing hits her even more than him guiding her hips to please them both. If he notices, he doesn't show it in any other way than thrusting his hips up for every time hers grind down. At one point, they're forehead to forehead, his arms around her body as she twists crumpled bed sheets and presses her knees against his ribs. It's the most intimate, she thinks, that they've ever been.

But the moment is over as soon as they ride the wave. He pulls her off of him to shower. She goes about gathering her discarded clothes. Once she's clean and dresses, they leave in separate cars, going in separate ways to separate lives.

* * *

Michelle can count on her hands the number of times she and Arthur have had a real argument. Not a disagreement or minor dispute but a full-blown argument with yelling and accusations.

They're having one now.

It starts at Alfred's house. They go to have a movie night with other friends. She and Arthur are fine in the beginning. They share the couch, laughing and joking even commenting on the movies from time to time.

When the movies are over, Arthur and Alfred have a talk about a potential sell. Michelle sits at the breakfast bar eating stale popcorn while they talk in the kitchen. There's some event going on in a city about five hours away. They will have to stay the night. It's on a Thursday.

"I can't go," Michelle quickly interjects. Both men look her way. Alfred blinks in confusion at her sudden outburst. "I have a thing,"

Her husband crosses his arms and leans against the kitchen counter, "It's a yoga class," he clarifies. "And you can skip just one class, Michelle. You've been going everyday for months now."

Her brows twitch at the dismissive tone of his and the conversation once again resumes without her agreeing as if she'll just go along with it. She throws the feel popcorn kernels in her hands back into the big round blue bowl.

"I'm not going. You two go," she says loud enough for them to hear, interjecting in the conversation.

"I thought we agreed you were skipping the class." Arthur questions with a raised brow.

"You suggested it," she counters, "I didn't agree.

Alfred's blue eyes swing to Arthur who's frowning disapprovingly at her. She can't bring herelf to care as she eyes him just the same.

"Michelle," her skin crawls at the tone, like he's speaking to a disobedient child, "Were you listening to us? This is a three-person job, much like the ones we've done in the past. Where you come with us to act as the third person. You can skip a class for that."

She purses her lips and shakes her head. "I'm busy on Thursdays, you know that. I can't do it."

"You can't or you won't?"

Michelle steels her nervous and straightens her back. "Both,"

Then the argument starts. Arthur starts with the accusations first, calling her selfish for putting a hobby over what is essentially their livelihood. Michelle counters with him being selfish and inconsiderate of how important this 'hobby' of hers is. She adamantly refuses to go with them and when Alfred finally gets tired of trying to break them up, they have to leave.

The car ride is much the same. She's yelling at him and letting him have everything she's held back for all this time. Arthur isn't one to yell but he raises his voice to match her irate tone.

"It's always about you, all the time!" she fuses, glaring out of the window. "Arthur this, Arthur that but when it's something that I want to do I have to get pushed to the side."

"This has nothing to with me pushing you to the side! You're being unreasonable over something so insignificant and you've been on this 'me' kick ever since you started taking that damn class!"

The car pulls up to their house and Michelle gets out before he even parks. Arthur's yelling after her, telling her he isn't finished with this. She slams the front door in his face. He forces it open and slams it behind him.

"Michelle!" She goes to the bathroom but he yanks the handle before she can slam that too. "We are not done."

"Yes, we are! I'm not changing my mind. I'm doing what I want for once, with or without your approval, _dad_."

"Oh that's very mature. Very 'loving wife' of you to up yourself above us and the things that gets the bills paid around here."

"Don't you dare," she hisses in his face as he stands between the doorway, "Don't you dare play that I pay the bills card around here, Arthur Kirkland, I swear to God I will walk out of this house and find someone else to pay my bills."

"Are you threating to leave me?"

"Maybe I am!"

"Over a yoga class?"

" _Yes_ ,"

Silence.

They both stare each other down, Michelle breathing heavily and Arthur glaring at her with bright green eyes. Finally, he speaks.

"What's so special about this class that you can't skip it?" Michelle rolls her eye and tries to squeeze pass but he won't let her. "Answer me!"

She flinches at the sudden boom in his voice. "It's just something I enjoy doing!"

He chuckles humorlessly, "Something you enjoy? It can't be that. It can't be just that. You enjoy food but you never fight me this hard when we don't eat what you want and you need food. It's more than that, enough for you to threaten to leave me so tell me what it really is. What is it, Michelle?"

Her chest heaves as he leans in closer to her. She has to take a step back Arthur just follows until she's corned by the sink. She shakes her head vehemently, "Move."

"Not until you tell me what's really going on. You've changed; everything about you's changed. You look different, you're wearing make-up, dressing differently, your entire attitude is like a stranger."

Michelle feels like a cornered wolf, desperate but still defiant. She bites her lip and looks him in the eye.

"I haven't changed. You're just now noticing the real me."

This time Arthur looks strangely at her, eyes focused and unfocused. He backs away.

"When you find my wife, tell her I'll be at Alfred's."

Then he leaves.


	5. Part Five

**Part Five** : 

"It takes a lot to know a woman, a lot to understand what's humming."

 _"It takes a lot to know_ _a woman"- Damien Rice_

Twenty. Seven. Times.

That's how many times Michelle makes eye contact with him. It's all she can do to keep the dam from breaking and telling him everything. She's thankful that they're in the shower and that the water hides the fact that she's crying. Her emotions are a mess. She can't tell if the tears are from her failing marriage or her hope for something with a stranger that can't be.

She clings to him tighter than normal, holding on desperately to this moment that's barely comforting. He gives her his body; let's her dig her nails into his shoulder and even catches her eye all twenty seven times. Even as they linger almost longingly on his lips, his jaw, his cheeks, and most especially his eyes, he just lets her have this. Each time their eyes met they hold, her eyes drinking in his with a hunger unseen. The intimacy that they share holds everything Michelle desires; with their eyes lock to one another they fuck with intensity beyond what she thinks is possible. She is sharing herself with him, allowing him to read the effects of every touch, every caress and how it moves her.

She hiccups and buries her face in his shoulder when it's all over far too soon. Because she knows what's coming next. He'll pull away. They get dressed and it's over. She leaves, he leaves and she's left empty and hollow without comfort.

It's him who turns off the water; Michelle is still wrapped around his body, not wanting to let go. _Not yet, please_ , she thinks desperately. But he's already prying her legs from his waist and she slides down until her feet hit the shower floor. For the first time she wonders who he's rushing off to see.

 _Is_ she the only one who intimately showers with him? Does he have someone waiting on him at home? She realizes with full force how little she actually knows about him. Does he moan like that for some other woman? Does he come as hard or breathe as quickly? Does he wipe away another's tears and reassure her that everything will be okay? Will he notices hers and care enough to comfort? The questions eat at her all night. But she swallows it down like a difficult pill as they both exit the shower.

Michelle lingers for longer this evening. She even picks up a magazine from the side table and begins to flip through it, mostly uninterested at what she finds there, but occasionally pausing on a page. He sits, as usual, in the chair, slowly dressing and without a word or look at her. They never speak after. They barely look at each other then. She rises from the bed and walks past him once or twice, going first to gaze out the window, and then again to the bathroom.

Michelle fidgets with the need to talk, to tell him everything that's happening to her. She just needs him to acknowledge her in some way or form or something. To at the very least, tell her his name so she gets some since of more than just sex.

As she reemerges from the bathroom, he's sitting his chair, his elbows resting on his thighs, and he watches her. Waiting. Her step falters and she looks at him while he looks at her. His eyes never leave her once. Has he noticed her restlessness? Is this his way of extended an invitation for more intimacy, for conversation? Her heart pounds as she walks towards the window once again, looking out at the dark night sky. She hears the squeaking sound of the chair, signaling his soon departure.

 _No!_ Michelle thinks frantically. _This is it. I'm going to do it._

Her heart flutters with nervousness. She thinks about how ironic it is that she has experienced and witnessed many of the more intimate moments, and yet here she is, absolutely terrified at the prospect of speaking to him.

But she has to speak to him. She just has to. Michelle needs to tell someone about what's going on inside. He's the only one whom she can share her feelings with, the only one who has no connection to real life enough not to condemn her actions. He's the only one that can tell her whether her hope for more with them is even feasible.

He's pulling his arm through his jacket sleeve while leaning down to retrieve his car keys from the coffee table when she says it.

"-What's your name?"

She just blurts it out. She has to get it out quickly, before the more rational part of her brain jumps in to stop her. It's a simple question but a gateway to so much more.

He pauses mid putting his keys in his pocket. Michelle expects him to look angry or perhaps something that puts her in her place and makes her feel she's in the wrong. What he gives, however, is far worse.

His eyes plead with hers. Begs her to leave it alone. Begs her not to question him - not to ruin what they have. As she looks into his eyes she feels a flood of emotion pass between them, stronger than she's ever felt in her life, and it almost floors her the intensity of that simple connection.

He crosses the room to her, leans in and kisses her forehead. This time it is her turn to watch him, as he hastily gathers his things and exits the room. As he closes the door behind him she feels the bile rise in throat.

And she wishes she never spoke at all.

* * *

Michelle's never really known loneliness. She's been alone and has felt lonely from time to time but has never really known what it is to be lonely until now. It's something like chasing after a sunset. What you want is in reach and out of reach at the same time. She can see as clear as if it were right before her what she wants to help. And yet, if she sticks her hand out to grab it, the vision ripples and slips through her fingers like fog. It's an unattainable dream.

Michelle does reach out, towards the other side of the bed at home. Arthur's side of the bed is cold but it still smells like him. She stares dazed at the pillow for a few seconds. It's been three long weeks and both of them have been too stubborn to call the other. Alfred calls every other day trying to convince her to come over so they can have a little chat but she never does. It's not that she doesn't want to. It's just that Alfred can't whisper to save his life and Arthur almost always overhears and she can hear him yelling at his friend to stop meddling, saying things like, 'If she wants to come she will on her own'. Things like that make her not want to go there and reconcile. It seems forced in light of Alfred's call. So she stays at home, waits a few days and decides that today will be the day to go over. Then Alfred calls again and the cycle repeats.

Michelle misses him though, flaws and all. Arthur isn't perfect but he's good and he tries hard to please her all the time. Thinking about it and everything that's happened, she feels ungrateful for his action.

Or, perhaps, this is just the loneliness talking, because she can't do what she wants. What does she want? Michelle sighs and turns over on her back, looking at the ceiling. She wants Arthur home, true, but she also wants her cake and eat it too. She wants to have her little friend be more than just that. Lately he's been in such a rush to get things over with after she opened her mouth. It isn't the same anymore. They still meet, the sex is still great but the allure is slowing dying. She doesn't know if it's because of what she said or because of the way he makes her feel. Or if she doesn't have Arthur to fall back on and hold when she wants arms around her.

Michelle is lonely and the worse kind of it too because all of it is her own fault. The feelings she has are directly tied to her trying to fill the gap Arthur leaves her. She did all of this to feel loved and wanted and needed. Now she just feels…lost and alone.

* * *

There's finality in the way he handles her. He's giving her want she wants and it's both fulfilling and depressing at the same time. He looks at her almost the same way she looked at him that night she asked his name. He's showing himself to her, those auburn eyes open and daring her to explore deeper. Even the way they have sex is different. It's not just sex. It's intimate, with him on top of her, holding her legs around his waist. They're forehead to forehead, breathing each other's air. It's slow, controlled and purposeful. It's making love. He's giving Michelle everything she's been longing for in these few moments.

She knows it too and intertwines her hands around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair. She tries not to blink, less she misses something that he's communicating. And he's saying so much without saying anything at all. His hands speak as the move with purpose up her thigh, down the length of her legs, behind her knees and over her calves. He's mapping her body, touching, feeling, and remembering her.

Michelle's heart flutters with her lashes when he kisses her jowl. Lips travel over the cheeks, kissing her nose and each eyelid. His remembrance of her person is thorough and heartbreaking. But she lets him because she needs this. It's her last moment to pretend and her best performance yet. She can believe they are more than what they really are. It's not two strangers meeting in a hotel room doing things they shouldn't. It's two lovers sharing one of the most intimate acts known to mankind. When it's over. When they both reach a climax together, there is no rush to shower. He stays on top of her with his nose pressed into her neck and her wrapped around his body. They breathe in sync and if Michelle had any tears left for him she would be crying. But she has none so she clings to him until their heart rates are normal.

They still don't move for another five minutes. He pulls away first. Her arms fall limp to her side as he rolls on his side and sits at the edge of the bed. Michelle stays laying there, looking up at the familiar ceiling in the familiar hotel room. She doesn't quite know what to feel. It's more numbing than anything else. How did she get here? How did she allow something that was supposed to be a casual tryst evolve into feelings and emotions? How did she let herself fall so low?

The bed creaks and shifts when he stands. She doesn't move until he disappears into the shower. Michelle pushes herself up, feeling more lethargic than usual after their little escapade. Her limbs are heavy as she goes about picking up discarded clothes. The shower humming serves as background noise while she neatly folds her clothes and arranges them in her gym bag. He emerges minutes later with a towel about his waist. Mechanically she goes in the shower after him.

The bathroom is steamy with the scent of cheap hotel soap. She steps in and lets the warm water run over her back and neck. Michelle stares blankly at the white wet titles beneath her feet. Her sullen mood hangs thick in the air like the fog around her. Every movement, from washing her body to cleaning her hair is slow and methodic. She doesn't know how long she showers but she lingers until the smoke becomes unbearable and she has to shut the hot water off. Her hand reaches for the curtain; pulling back, ready to step out. But Michelle hesitates, eyeing the door and the handle.

It occurs to her then that she's afraid. She is afraid of opening the door and finding the room empty. Even though there were no words, their tryst this evening felt final. He owns her nothing. There were no official guidelines on when this should end. Michelle left herself open to his whim, and him equally hers. Either of them could have suddenly stopped showing up at the bar and it would be of no consequence. _Should_ be of no consequence.

She bites her lip and grabs the fluffy big towel. Michelle walks to the mirror and smears away condensation with her hands. The woman looking back at her is someone she can't recognize. A cheating wife who's gotten in over her head with a man she barely even knows.

Michelle the home wrecker.

Michelle the fool who made something so simple become so complicated.

Michelle, the woman afraid to face an empty room because it means she means nothing more to him than an easy lay on a Thursday night.

She takes a breath and opens the door, head down as she moves towards the bed. _Don't look,_ she chants mentally but can't help but to do just that.

He's sitting in the same chair, fully cloth and watching her. She freezes, clenching the top of the towel wrapped around her body. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. Her mind screams that she should say something, anything, but her mouth refuses to work. Why hasn't he left yet? Why is he still there? What does it mean?

Michelle doesn't have to wait long for the answer. He's standing, crossing the room towards her. She swallows thickly, glued to her spot by those eyes that penetrate her soul. She doesn't blink until he's directly before her. His hand reaches to brush hair from her face and his eyes dance around, much like his hands did earlier, taking in everything he can. That hand stops on her cheek and it's warmer than the shower she's just left. He kisses her then. It's not a heated kisses but passionate nonetheless. It's finite and telling. Michelle gives him her all in that one kiss and when he pulls back, she knows exactly what to say.

"Are you leaving?" her voice whispers.

He sighs, still close to her. "Yes, bella, I am."

It's their first real conversation since that time at the bar and it lasts only a few seconds.

"Okay," Michelle says.

He kisses her forehead and pulls away.

And that's the end of it.


	6. Part Six

**Chapter Six** : 

_"Lord forgive me for the things I've done. I was never meant to hurt no one"_

\- _Bloodstream,_ Ed Sheeran.

Arthur gives first. Michelle counts herself lucky.

She gets out of the car parked on the curb and zips up her jacket. A gust of wind makes her shiver and she pulls the hood overhead to block the wind and maybe hide her face.

No amount of hiding will erase the dark circles from her eyes or frown lines forming on the corner of her lips. No amount of physical cover up with patch internal pain.

She sniffs and wipes at her nose. Taking a deep breath, Michelle wills herself to be happy, to look cheerful and pleased. At the very least she can go for content but even that emotion is hard to pull out. She digs deep anyway, thinking of all the time they've spent apart over an argument that happened months ago.

He wants to talk and this is good, she reminds herself. And yet she stands next to the driver door of the car she and Arthur used to share and stares down the street. Her hand grips the door handle and her face takes on a pensive expression. Retreating would be so much easier than pretending emotions that just aren't there actually exist in her current frame of mind. The fact is, Michelle is not happy and hasn't been for the past few weeks.

In the week following _their_ initial goodbye, a strange emotion pulled at her. It festered away at her, conjuring thoughts of confusion. It didn't make sense. He'd put so much effort into revealing parts of himself only to have left her there in the hotel room. Didn't he feel any thing for her? Did he see her as more than a Thursday night fling? The idea seemed so odd that she was the only one who caught feelings. That just couldn't be right. His actions that night proved that he wanted more too.

He wanted _her_ and something beyond sweat and sex.

Why did he leave then? Why did he say such silly things as 'goodbye' when they both wanted the same thing? To belong to each other in more ways than just sex. As far as she's concerned, he was hers. She may not have known his name, but that night he let her in. When he looked into her eyes they told her he needed her. It told her that she was giving him something that no one else had. That was her instinct, and her instincts were rarely wrong. That should have counted for something, right?

It didn't.

Not even close. Michelle didn't find out until she went the next Thursday and waited for him so they could maybe talk. So he could explain what that goodbye really meant. So that she could have closure or what she really wanted or _something_.

He didn't come.

The realization washed over Michelle slowly, like a gradually rising tide, over the several hours that she sat at the bar.

She knew. Deep down, despite the need to clarify, Michelle knew this would happen. Denial came strong. But if she were truly honest, she had known all along that he wouldn't be there that night. As strong of an emotion as ignoring the obvious was, that week dragged on terribly for her. Michelle's eyes watched the seconds tick away on a variety of clocks with a barely restrained patience, one that threatened to snap at any second. She had borne it.

That Thursday night though, when her eyes fixed to the final clock, the one in the bar, it _read half past too late._

He didn't show.

That night, Michelle drank far too much. She knew it, knew after the seventh shot that she should most definitely stop, but she had to keep going to drown out the impending doom that seemed to be encapsulating her from the inside out. The bartender finally took pity and called a cab. Michelle hardly slept that night. Or the next Thursday she went back, or that Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. She went to bar everyday and everyday she sat for hours. Alone.

After the second week, Michelle stopped going. Their game was over and he ended on his terms. They had no real agreement other causal sex. There were no rules other than the one she willingly broken: keep it just sex. Michelle crossed the line. Michelle tried to make it more and she paid the price with her heart.

Her eyes press closed. Quickly she wipes her face. Now is not the time for tears. Her husband is waiting for her at his best friend's home. Now is not the time to waddle in misery and be upset about a man she barely knows. Arthur is in there and he loves and cares for her enough to wait for her to come back to her senses.

Her fingers ease from the door handle. Michelle takes another deep breath and schools her features into reservation. She wills her legs to move before she can change her mind and marches towards Alfred's apartment.

She isn't quite sure what to expect from Arthur. He has every right to be mad even if he isn't fully aware of why she's acted so strangely. He has every right to demand a divorce. To be honest, Michelle half expects him to drop that bomb on her. She deserves it.

Arthur does no such of the thing. His reaction nearly startles her when he jumps up from the couch as she comes into the room. Michelle can't bring herself to even look him in the eyes. She doesn't have to as he is already crossing the room. Michelle flinches, bracing herself for the worse. But a gentle finger raises her chin so she's forced to meet his gaze.

Her eyes dance as they try to look everywhere else but eventually they rest of his lips, up his nose and then finally into pools of green. Michelle's heart thumps erratically in her chest. The urge to pull away intensifies. He's staring at her so intently, searching for something, trying to find answers, solutions, willing her to give him _something._

She can't. Michelle just can't. She has nothing left to give and everything is all wrong. She lost the love of her life. She lost her lover. She lost her dignity and sense of self-worth. She lost her strength and will to fight him. There's nothing left to fight _for._ She's lost everything. Yet Arthur is asking silently for her to help him help them.

Brown eyes glass over and blurs. The tears won't stay hidden any longer. Michelle's lip quiver as tears seep from the corners of her eyes. In some strangled attempt to make amends her mouth moves,

"I…" she stammers and gasps as her throat tightens, "Arthur, I'm…I just…"

"I'm sorry," he interjects, affectively stopping her from stumbling over words any further. "I'm so sorry, love." He whispers to her and, much to her surprise pulls her into a hug.

Michelle hangs on to him for dear life. Her hand fists the back of his white shirt and she buries her face into his shoulder. Her entire body leans into him and she lets go of everything she's been holding.

Michelle cries. Hard, loud and messy tears soak Arthur's shirt. He lets her let him bare her burden. Her body sags, knees weak from mental exhaustion. Arthur holds on tight, supporting both of them.

"Sorry," Michelle wheezes out through chocking sobs, "I'm really really sorry."

"Me too," he croaks between tears of his own.

Guilt forces her to continue, "I didn't mean to," she confesses, "I was so upset and I missed you so much and I…and we…"

Arthur mildly rebukes her. "It's not all your fault," he presses kisses her ear and continues. "I pushed you into it. I spent too much time at work. I ignored you and you finally had enough. I should have paid attention sooner."

The floodgate of tears open afresh as guilt threatens to pull her completely under. "That's no excuse," she whispers into his shirtsleeves.

Arthur just doesn't get it. He doesn't know the things she's done. He doesn't fully understand the confession she's trying to make. Her tongue feels leaded, heavy with a burden that needs release. She has to tell him. He needs to know.

"Don't do that to yourself," Arthur urges.

Michelle cringes.

"I'm at fault too," he tells her.

She bites her lip.

"You had every right to be upset." He accepts.

Her chest heaves.

"…Look at what I've done to you…" he whispers guiltily.

Michelle's legs give out under the mental strain. Her thoughts move in and out of consciousness. This is too much; it's all too much. Arthur catches her easily and carries her to the sofa. He sits her down and hurries off into the kitchen. Michelle leans back against the cushion, forcing herself to breath normally to stop hyperventilating and relax.

 _Count from a hundred_ , she thinks and rattles down numbers until Arthur returns with a cup of orange juice and water. "Please drink this," he tells her but holds the glass of juice to her lips.

Her mouth opens, accepting. Michelle drinks it all, knowing Arthur will not stop until she has. The juice does serve as a distraction. She can't mentally freak out and drink at the same time. Her nerves settle. If only a little.

Arthur sits the glass down and fixed her with a serious look. Michelle looks away but feels the hood of her jacket being pulled away. A shiver runs through her as her covering is removed. He turns her face back to him and Michelle watches as his eyes widen slightly.

Every line of her torment must be visible to him. All of her stress etched years to her face, dark circles, puffy red eyes, and more visible cheekbones: Michelle is a mess. For a moment, Arthur's guilt is as visible as her shame. He takes in her features and his own contour into anguish.

Yet he calmly asks, "Have you been sleeping, Michelle?"

Lying is useless. Her face says it all. "No."

"Eating?"

"…Not much…"

Arthur hesitates then asks with a twinge of hope for a similar answer as the first two, "Drinking?"

She looks down at a spot on floor, feeling as lowly as the carpet. Her fingers fidget and she lets seconds past before deciding on an honest enough answer. "Sometimes."

His hand falls away. She doesn't have it in her too look up. Silence follows as the two of them share the couch. Weariness starts to set in and all she wants to do is sleep. She just wants her and Arthur to go home and forget this episode in their life. It's completely selfish because she's still not being honest. But a part of her rationalizes that he's forgiven her. He's given her permission to act out, taken the blame upon himself and gave her clemency. Michelle closes her eyes and sighs.

But they open again upon hearing movement. She blinks at the site before her. Arthur shifts himself until he's right in front of her on his knees. Her heart thumps anew.

 _Please don't do this. Please don't!_ She mentally pleads.

"Michelle," he speaks seriously, keeping his eyes down, "I want to make a pledge to you."

"Arthur," she says exasperated, "Please, get up."

He shakes his head, "Let me finish."

"But you don't…"

He moves before Michelle can complete her sentence. Arthur drops his head in her lap; burying his face into her thigh then wraps his arms around her waist. "It's _killing_ me seeing you like this, knowing I've played a part in pushing you this far. I never want my wife to suffer so much from my selfishness. It's not right."

Michelle exhales, "I'm selfish too…"

Arthur snorts, "We both are and stubborn and stupid. But I vow to you, Michelle Victoria Kirkland, that I will never neglect you like that again. I will never let us sink this low. I will never let anything get between us. I'll work, _believe me_ , I'll put my everything into keeping you by my side."

"This is my promise to you, here and now on my knees. From today, we start fresh. It'll take time. We'll have to work at it. We'll have to communicate with each other but we can do this. And I'll love you just as much as I did on the day we said 'I do'. And love you even more until the our final days on this earth."

Arthur pulls his face away and looks her square in the eyes, "Do you accept? Will you stay on this journey with me?"

For the first time in a long time, Michelle's mind is nearly blank. The stresses of the last months are but blurs in light of pleading green eyes. Arthur wants to start over. He wants to forget everything. He doesn't ask further of what she's done. He isn't demanding that she give him answers from the past. He's just there on his knees begging for her to give him attention. To work with her to make their wedding vows valid and true.

All that time spent in the arms of another man and all she really wanted was for her husband to see her and love her.

Arthur is offering just that. Clarity strikes and Michelle can find no better answer than,

"Yes."


End file.
